The Sound of Silence
by Kat Mindin
Summary: "Hello darkness, my old friend I've come to talk with you again Because a vision softly creeping Left its seeds while I was sleeping And the vision that was planted in my brain Still remains Within the sound of silence"
1. Chapter 1

**The Sound of Silence**

 **Author's Note: Title and quotes are taken from the Simon and Garfunkel song of the same name. Quotes in the story taken from BBC's Sherlock.**

 **Warnings: Drug use.**

 **Chapter One**

" _Hello Darkness my old friend."_

He was walking alone down the cobblestone street. Hands pressed deep into pockets, collar turned up in his unique way. Every few meters a streetlamp would illuminate his next few steps. His eyes rarely strayed from his path, he knew without looking that he was alone. No one would be up at this hour. No one, save him perhaps.

As he walked his focus was on the cacophony in his mind. It bounced from one subject to the next, but always returned to one image, before scattering off, only to inevitably return a few moments later. It was her, as she should have looked, as she whispered those words to him. Whispered the words that would save her life. She loved him, he knew. He also knew that love was not an advantage and that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side, but he was still haunted by the image of her.

She would have been barefoot. She was at home, so she would have been relaxed. She would have been wearing her favourite pair of sweatpants. Grey, patched in the knee. Elastic in the waist and ankles. They bore an old stain on the right thigh from when she had dripped wax from a candle during a blackout. They had a hole in the left leg at the seam below the waist. A hole that she "had been meaning to get to for a long time." He didn't know why she just didn't wear her new sweatpants.

Her shirt would have been similar in evidence of the wearer's love for it. It would be the one that had a frayed hemline. It was purple, so it bore less visible stains, but what it lacked in stains, it made up for in holes. There was one in the bottom right-hand corner from when her cat had expressed his disdain at her moving one cold morning. The hole was small, but it showed a round circle of pale flesh. There was another to the right of her navel. This one slightly bigger, from when the shirt got caught on a jagged edge of a door frame. The third was near the round neckline was about the size of a walnut. She couldn't remember what had caused it, and had given up on sewing it closed as the fabric just kept fraying.

Her hair would be tied up loosely, untidily. Almost as if it was an afterthought as she made them both tea. In his mind's eye, she would have called his name to let him know his tea was ready and then she would have been startled to find him only a step behind her looking down at her intently. He would take the tea from her hands and thank her quietly. She would look up at him and she would see it in his eyes. The words that he was unable to say. The feelings that he had been taught not to feel. So she would say them for him and allow him to feel for her what he had been longing to feel since he was a child.

He reached his destination at precisely 3:17 am. The chair beneath the neon sign was vacant and irritation rushed through his mind. This was why this source was to be used in emergencies only. This source was not on time. Time is a resource not to be squandered. After waiting two minutes in the cold night air, the short, thin man appeared out of the darkness.

His skin reflected the green of the neon sign and gave him an ill-looking pallor. He stunk. His coat was ancient, worn well in the sleeves and in the elbows. Obviously, it had had two previous owners before its current wearer. His shirt collar was torn on the left-hand side and stained with a fair amount of blood. A pub brawl that had not ended in the wear's favour. The trousers had neither a belt nor suspenders, they were cinched in the waist with a dirty piece of string. He was the worst of humanity. He took what was not his and sold it for more than it was worth. The preyed on those who showed the slightest weakness and used every opportunity to his advantage even if it was to the detriment of others.

Sherlock held out his hand to the man. Between his fingers was the agreed upon amount. The man took the notes greedily and counted them quickly.

"You're short," he said.

"Check again," said Sherlock quietly.

The man did so.

"Ah," he said, "my mistake," he smirked. Sherlock had no doubt that this line was often used by customers in order to get them to pay extra for the product they needed so desperately.

After pocketing the money, the thin man pulled a box from his pocket. Sherlock checked its contents before turning away from the man, eager to put distance between himself and the man's stink.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the man called out after him. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the lack of subtlety.

This man was not his usual source. Sherlock had a contact who was based in a hospital a few miles outside of London. This source had, however, decided to take a vacation in Scotland, leaving Sherlock with the name and number of the thin man in the case of an emergency. This was an emergency.

Sherlock was used to his brain's constant activity. It was what he used to solve the cases no one could solve, see the things no one could see, deduce things no one could deduce. There was, however, no off switch. Sherlock had had to learn at an early age what was acceptable to say to and about people and what was unacceptable. His brother had helped somewhat, but he had mostly learned on his own through trial and error as Mycroft's methods, while effective, left him feeling alone. While time spent alone meant time spent away from idiots, it also meant he was lonely.

So Sherlock developed his own methods for dealing with "other" people, but after Redbeard, he grew more like his brother in order to never feel such pain again. He isolated himself, it was easy considering his ability, not just for deduction, but also for offending anyone who got too close.

It was hard, now that he had friends to not automatically say the things he saw that they did not wish for him to see. John's sleepless nights. Rosie's sick on the shoulder of his jumper. Molly's lack of lipstick, the bags under her eyes. Sometimes he did not want his brain to process everything he saw. Sometimes he needed his brain to quieten down enough so that he could get some sleep. So that he could sort through the mess that his last case had become and file everything away into its correct place in his mind palace. He needed time to order his thoughts, especially his thoughts of her. Molly. His thoughts of his pathologist were getting severely out of hand. He needed to put them back into her room in his mind so that he could think clearly again.

This is where his contact outside of London came in. The man owed Sherlock his life for solving a case that concerned his wife, her foot and a scandal fit for the stage. So supplying SHerlock with morphine every now and then was a small favour. Sherlock had not expected this emergency. The contact was due back in London within a week, but Sherlock could not wait another week. He could not endure another week of sleepless nights or another week of an unquiet head.

Upon his return to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock wasted no time in taking his usual dosage of morphine. He felt it as it made its way through his veins. He felt it as it calmed his heartbeat. He waited for it to reach his mind. As it did, he realised that Molly's room had become a hall. Rows upon rows of cabinets full of files that were filled with details about her. Her favourite coffee, her favourite tea. How she took each, what she meant by 'enough' when he observed how much milk she took in each. Which crisps she liked, which ones she never touched. Which perfume she wore, what shade of lipstick she favoured and what each shade meant for her mood. Details. So many details, but not much information. There was much he did not know about his pathologist, but for now, he was content to be able to quieten his mind down enough so that sleep came and his thoughts did not overwhelm him so much. In his last waking moments, he allowed his mind to focus on her hair and how it shined in the sunlight. And how the smile on her face was all the sunlight he would ever need.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Sound of Silence**

 **Author's Note: Title and quotes taken from the Simon and Garfunkel song of the same name. Quotes in the story taken from BBC's Sherlock.**

 **Chapter One**

" _I've come to talk with you again."_

It was a difficult case. It had taken all of his mental resources. Even Mycroft had struggled with it. They were dealing with a particularly difficult string of abductions and murders. It had taken a good few weeks to put together the case that tore apart one of London's most respected families. A family that, as it turned out, had been covering up abductions and murders for years. Using the children and prostitutes in some kind of occult worship. There was so much information that he had had to gather. So many witnesses he had had to talk to. So many files he had had to sift through until he could piece together the trail that nobody believed was there. Until Molly had confirmed his findings with an autopsy of an old case. What followed was Scotland Yard's biggest case in history. The unearthing of a great scandal and the saving of two scared children.

He had used up the last of his supply and he was unable to attain more as his hospital contact was under suspicion and the thin man he had spoken with only once had already been apprehended. He was at his wit's end and John had begun to notice. He supposed it was strange, watching someone as they watched you. Looking for signs that would allow them to act as they believed they should in your best interests. He supposed he'd better expect another drug raid sometime soon. Well, at least he wouldn't have to use his floorboards this time.

Now that the case was closed, Sherlock had expected John's watchful eye to slack off a bit as the exhaustion from the case caught up with him. He was right, John bade him farewell sooner than usual, no doubt in favour of his bath and his bed. Sherlock remained in his chair trying to sort through the mountain of information that was flying through his mind. Details of the case that he did not wish to relive were slipping in and out of his conscious thoughts, but he had difficulty focussing on individual pieces in order to properly file them and the storm inside his mind was only making it more difficult as the minutes ticked by.

He jumped when she spoke, his focus had been turned so completely inward that he had not even noticed that she was there.

"You should sleep, Sherlock." Her voice was soft and gentle, almost pleading.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, he had his fingers steepled under his chin and he was sitting cross-legged in his suit in his chair. He had, at least, taken his shoes off, but other than that his attire still said "press-conference." She waited for him to answer, but when none was forthcoming, she spoke again this time questioning.

"What do you need Sherlock?"

The way her lips formed around his name broke through the storm in his mind and he blinked at the sudden clarity. He was able to take in their surroundings. There were plates stacked on the kitchen table. They had eaten apparently. There was cold tea in the cup at his left elbow. They had eaten some time ago. The fireplace was warm, but the fire had long since died. He had been sitting for quite a while.

She sat opposite him in John's chair. Her hair was tied up, no makeup on her face. She looked as tired as everyone else did. The case had not taken exceptions when doing its number on the Yard. She was wearing a striped jumper and jeans. Simple clothing, she was not part of the press conference and it was her day off. Ah, she was babysitting. Her face now reminded him of her face in the image that was planted in his brain, of how she should have looked when she had told him she loved him.

This time, after receiving no answer, Molly rose to her feet and went to him, placing her warm hands over his icy fingers.

Once again, her touch managed to cut through the hurricane in his mind and his focus fell to her fingers. They were small. Her nails were short, neat and clean. She wore no jewellery on her fingers or wrists. A habit he supposed from work. When one works in gloves, one cannot wear rings or bracelets. Her touch was light. Her fingers did not attempt the futile battle of warming his hands, they merely shared touch for a few moments as she tried to gain his attention. He had been sitting for hours now.

She watched him watch her hands and she realised what was happening. She knew him better than he thought she did. The pompous arse that he was dictated that he be all mysterious and unknown, but after knowing him for years she had realised that he wasn't that different from most people. Sure, he could almost read your mind, but his needs were the same of every person. The look she saw in his eyes now was similar to the one she saw when he was on cocaine shortly after Mary had died. The desperate look that showed his mind was working frantically. At this stage in the game though, at the end of a case, Molly knew the desperate look was dangerous and that he was close to a burnout. So, taking his hands in hers, she tried to pull him out of himself and bring him back to the present in order to free him from his own subconscious.

Knowing words would not permeate the barrier of his thoughts again, she used her touch to reach him. Her hands travelled to his wrists and his eyes followed them as they did. His pulse was racing as he tried, in vain, to quiet his mind. Although, her touch was helping somehow. Her hands were bringing all the details of her forward and blocking out the gory details of the case that had shaken the world.

Suddenly, her hands gripped his and then she was pulling him up. Her hands never left his as she led him to his bedroom, her eyes on his face and his on their joined hands as if he could not believe that they were still touching. Once inside his bedroom, she turned and faced him. She could feel his pulse slowing in her hands and she saw the battle going on behind his eyes.

She let go of his wrists and his eyes flew to hers in a panic, but she simply smiled at him and removed his suit jacket. As her thumbs brushed past his neck, he shivered and closed his eyes. Her touch was bringing him the peace he had only ever found in a morphine induced haze. After draping his jacket over a chair, her hands moved to his shirt buttons. This time his eyes watched hers as she undid each button carefully, but her eyes never strayed from her actions.

After removing his shirt, she took his hand in hers once again. And once again his eyes met hers. His confusion masked the struggle going on behind his eyes, but her eyes held only calm. She tugged on his hand until she had pulled him onto his bed. She pulled the covers over him, but as she turned to leave, his hand clasped down on hers and he refused to let her leave. She sighed and gave in to his insistent eyes. She kicked off her shoes and climbed under the covers with him. She pulled him closer and was surprised when he let her hold him.

As he listened to her heartbeat, his body became attuned to her. He breathed when she breathed. His heartbeat slowed to the speed of hers. Her touch and her smell brought to his mind the image that he had of her of how she should have looked when she told him that she loved him. His brain quieted and he slept. For the first time in days, he slept.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Sound of Silence**

 **Author's Note: Title and quotes taken from the Simon and Garfunkel song of the same name. Quotes in the story taken from BBC's Sherlock.**

 **Warnings: Drug use. Sex. Language**

 **Chapter Three**

" _Because a vision softly creeping_

 _Left its seeds while I was sleeping_

 _And the vision that was planted in my brain_

 _Still remains_

 _Within the sound of silence"_

Things changed, almost imperceptibly, but they changed. Sherlock went to her more often, he stayed in her space more often. He touched her more often. That night had led him to the discovery that her touch had much the same effect as morphine. When he worked a particularly difficult case, Sherlock used cocaine to heighten his senses, but when the case was over and he needed to come down from the high, he reached for morphine.

He had found another hospital contact that owed him generously and supplied him with his usual solution, but it lay untouched under his floorboards in his room. As did the cocaine. When he was irritated with himself because something was not right, because there was something that he had missed, something he'd had to stab to the top of the fireplace, he found himself in her morgue. He found himself listening to her voice as it dictated notes as she performed her autopsies. Sometimes, he stayed until the very end when she was packing away all her tools and turning off the lights. It was during these times that he walked her home in silence. Only her hand in his gave her any sense that he actually knew he had company.

Other times, he'd fly from the room making her jump at his sudden movement. Something she had said or done had given his brain the clue it needed to string together miles of unrelated details that, once connected, led to the solution of the case.

This change in his behaviour confused her to her wit's end because he was Sherlock Holmes and she didn't talk to him about it. She had no desire to be met with his opinions on sentiment and compassion and companionship. So she let things be. She let him set the pace because although he had once called her boring and treated her as though she had the IQ of a slug, Molly Hooper was actually quite intelligent, thank you very much. She knew she was still in love with him, despite her best efforts, her infatuation with The World's Only Consulting Detective had lost its silly pinkish hue only to be replaced with a great respect, admiration and love. She still lusted after him dramatically and it had taken everything in her not to run her hands over his chest that night in his flat, but she loved him too much to take advantage of him like that. He was vulnerable in that moment and she had been lost the moment he had looked into her eyes. She would do anything for him, even if it meant staying up all night and holding him so that his brain could get some much-needed rest.

So this new dynamic that they had, while it had been somewhat distracting in the beginning, was something to which she had become accustomed. She had come to know which Sherlock she'd be entertaining by the look in his eyes and by his destination upon his arrival at the morgue. He still came in to run his own tests and experiments, but when he didn't automatically head for his microscope, Molly knew he was in search of something that he had come to realise, only she could provide. She, of course, had no idea what it was that he found in her presence, but she simply let him alone and did not expect anything from him. She had learned long ago that if she did not expect things from him then she would not be disappointed.

One morning, he came in around the time her shift started and followed her into the room where her first corpse of the day was waiting. He stood quietly near the door but facing her and he watched her work. This was not unusual, sure he rarely came in so early, but it was Sherlock, after all, there was no rhyme or reason. What was unusual, bordering on strange, was that he remained in his position for the whole day. He was still there when she was washing up and packing away. Molly thought it must be some case to have him in such a state. When she was finally ready to head home and began turning off the lights, he moved and went to stand by the door at the entrance to her lab. Waiting for her it seemed.

She took his hand as was their pattern and she was stunned to see him visibly relax. His posture was not so stiff, his forehead not so crinkled, his eyes not so tight and his lips not pressed together in such a hard line. His hand was light in hers as they walked. It was still light out, but they did not see many people on the walk back to her flat. The streetlamps were only beginning to be lit as they walked. The air was cool but her hand was warm in his.

When they reached her flat, instead of kissing her cheek at the door as he usually did, he followed her into it. This surprised her, but she tried not to let it show. After setting down her bag and removing her coat, shoes and socks - which he did as well - she moved to the kettle and began to make tea for them both. No need to ask how he liked it, he knew that she knew. He sat on her couch and steepled his hands under his chin in that familiar way. When the tea was ready she brought it to him and finally spoke.

"Want to tell me about it?"

She did not really expect a reply, but she asked out of habit. The way you sort of do when you're having tea with someone in your flat. So she was, again, surprised when he answered.

"The Scarlet Children," he said. His eyes not opening, nor his hands moving from their position.

Ah. The Scarlet children were a boy and a girl of about ten who had been used as a form of primitive assassin by their parents. They had eluded capture for many months because who would suspect a child for such violent crimes? However, the case had been solved, the parents were behind bars and the children were in an institute where they might learn a different way of life. It was a gruesome case that had taken its toll on Sherlock. Anyone could see that, but what was unusual about this particular case? He had dealt with difficult cases before and he had come out at the end of them. This time, his hands had a slight tremor in them as they picked up his cup to sip at his tea. Molly could see that all was not right with the consulting detective.

So she sat down next to him and placed her hand on the back of his neck. An invitation. He placed his tea down and gladly curled into her embrace, his head on her lap. Her touch on his skin cleared the fog in his mind. Her one hand was on his neck stroking the curls there. The other was holding his hand allowing him to hold onto her as the tremors grew more pronounced. She held him tighter as he fought back memories with strict determination. Murderous children were not something he could deal with, without memories of his sister climbing out of their carefully sealed box in his mind. The rhythm of her hand on his neck became the lifeline that he clung to in order to sort out his thoughts. Each movement of her hand put a detail back into its rightful place.

Molly didn't know how long she sat holding him, but by the time she moved, her tea was ice cold. Thinking him asleep, she began to carefully extricate herself from out from underneath him. Sherlock, however, was far from sleep. His mind had been fighting itself for hours and he was no closer to the mental stillness that he craved. Molly's touch helped, but tonight it was not enough. Sherlock began to panic at the thought that if her touch did not help his mind, then the morphine certainly wouldn't. When she stirred beneath him, he squeezed his eyes tight together against the renewed onslaught of the mental storm. He clutched her tighter in his hands. Molly grew worried when, after sitting together for so long, he had still not found the peace he seemed to gain from her presence.

"Sherlock, I need to move," she whispered quietly to him, hoping her voice would calm him.

"Molly, I need you." His voice was strangled. He was fighting his own words.

"Talk to me," she pleaded. Hoping he could tell her how she might help him.

Sherlock stood up with her and embraced her fully, his arms tightening around her, his face settling in her neck.

"It's loud, so loud. My head is so loud and full of pictures of them and her, all at the same time. The way they hurt others and the way she hurt me and how Mycroft hid her from me. It's all in my head and it's all so loud."

"Anything you need Sherlock, anything I can give you. It's yours."

She was startled when she felt his lips upon her neck. Then she heard his words in her ear.

"You, Molly. I need you. Your touch, your voice, it brings everything into focus. It pushes everything else aside and you are all that fills my mind."

His words were everything she had ever longed to hear. She felt his hands travel up her back and into her hair at the base of her skull. He pulled her hair from the tie, keeping his cheek pressed against hers.

"I see everything, all the time Molly and it floods my brain and it's all so loud. But not you. I see you and I am filled with your presence, but it is calming, soothing. You are what I need, but I fear that what I need from you now, it would be unfair to ask it of you. But I am not the hero Molly and ask I shall because you are the only thing keeping me sane."

Sherlock was astonished he was asking for something he hadn't even considered since his days in uni, but he found his body ached for her and his mind ached for the calm he knew she would bring.

"Anything Sherlock, anything. I am yours," she repeated.

Then his lips were on hers and he was kissing her and it was everything she had ever wanted so she was kissing him back. His hands dropped to her shirt and then their lips separated for a moment before he back again and his hands were roaming over her torso. Her skin like a balm to an open wound. Her hands, however, had not been given permission to roam about his body, so they stayed firmly on his neck until he took her bottom lip between his teeth and growled at her.

"Touch me, Molly." At that, her fingers set to work on his shirt buttons and when his shirt was open, her hands touched his skin. They both gasped at the contact. No one had touched him in this way for so long and she had longed to do so from the moment she had met him. His chest was not overly defined, but she could feel the muscles beneath his skin as he moved. Their lips continued to dance together and she felt his thumbs brush against the underside of her breasts. He seemed to require additional consent from her so she reached behind her and undid the clasp before pulling the straps from her shoulders.

The moment they were free, Sherlock's mind was entirely focused on her breasts and how they felt in his hands. They were round and full, her nipples pink and hard beneath his touch. She gasped as he ran his thumbs over them and moaned when he squeezed them between his fingers. At her moan, Sherlock pulled his lips from her and made a trail of kisses and hot breath down her neck until he reached her breast. Here he nipped, sucked and licked until she could barely stand. Her other breast was cover by one hand, but the other had fallen to her arse. Squeezing her and pulling her closer to him. She responded in kind before growing frustrated at how tightly his trousers fit him and how little of him she could feel. So her hands moved to the button of his trousers.

When he felt her hands try to undress him further, he broke away from her breast, took her hand and lead her to her bedroom. Here he placed her hands back on his waist band and watched her unzip him. His hands were settled on her lower back, waiting his turn to undress her. Once undone, his trousers were pushed to the floor and she looked up at him as she pushed her hand into his pants to cup his arse. His eyes dropped to her lips and then he was kissing her again before his hands were at her trousers and there were only his pants and hers separating them.

Once again, Sherlock trailed kisses down her neck, but this time he did not stop at her breast. His kisses trailed all the way down past her navel to the waistband of her knickers. He pulled them down as he continued to kiss her. Then he stood and pushed her back onto the bed before he settled between her legs. His left hand was on her thigh, pushing her down, into the mattress, his right hand pulled her leg up and over his shoulder and held it there while he began to place soft kisses at her entrance. She squirmed beneath him and soon, even he grew tired of his polite approach. He used his hands to separate her outer lips and bare her to him. He grew even harder at the sight, his mind continuing to store every detail of her in his mind palace for later use. His tongue darted out and he tasted her. She was sweet and salty and he loved it. He pushed his tongue inside her as far as he could go before he licked her up to her clit and focused his attention on it. His ears collected the sounds she was making, cataloguing each one. The way she moaned when he fucked her with his tongue. The way she said his name when he flicked it over her clit. The way she came apart beneath him and called his name when he trusted two of his fingers into her and sucked hard on her clit.

His scalp hurt slightly from the way her hands had gripped his curls, but it was a delicious hurt that made him want her more. When he climbed onto the bed on top of her, he was as bare as she was. She lifted her fingers to his hair, gently this time, and kissed him. She moaned as she tasted herself on his lips and seemed to kiss him deeper, hold him tighter until he was sure that she had cleaned him completely. He saw every detail of her face as if for the first time. She was completely relaxed. He wanted to count the freckles on her cheeks and the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. He wanted to stare at her face until he could recall it from memory. But his inaction stirred Molly to life once more and Sherlock gasped when he felt her hand encircle him and pull him towards her. She lined him up perfectly and when he pushed into her they both moaned at the contact.

He was still for a moment, again taking time to process all of the information about her that he was getting. The smell of her skin, the sound it made when he entered her. The feeling of her, wet and tight around him. It was his turn to groan her name this time.

"Molly," he managed.

"Shhh," she replied. "Just move."

And move, he did. He pulled out of her and pushed into her harder than before. Her hands were at his back and on his arse pulling him into her.

"Harder, Sherlock. I won't break," she whispered into his ear.

No, but I might. He thought. But he picked up his pace and set a rhythm that seemed to satisfy her. He was pushing into her so deeply, she felt so tight around him. His thrusts made her moan into his ear. They were both breathing too heavily to kiss.

Suddenly, she wrapped her legs around him, and in a move that completely astonished him, she flipped him over so that he was beneath her. All without losing their contact. And now he saw why she was frustrated. She pushed down onto him even deeper than before. She moved even faster. She squeezed her inner muscles around him and he threw his head back onto the pillows.

"Molly!" He cried. He was so close. He needed her to come with him. To dissolve with him into ecstasy.

Her touch on his hand startled him and he opened his eyes as she pulled his hand to her entrance, clearly asking him. He complied happily, enthusiastically. His thumb rubbing her clit until he could feel her walls around him shiver and then she was crying out his name and she was tightening around him. This sent him over the edge. He came with a shout, his hands tightened on her hips and he pushed into her once, twice more, before collapsing back against the bed. She collapsed against him. They lay completely bare against each other. And for the first time, his brain was blissfully silent.


End file.
